And that is indeed the whole point.

We scribble, we strive, we do all of this to achieve this seminal singular moment in the space time continuum.

Both we and the reader sit there with bated breath, edge of our seat (metaphorically and literally).

I, the scribbler of this tale, have no more notion of what is going to happen than you, the reader, do.

My imagination is racing the same (similar) fanciful scenarios as yours.

I am a gardener (not like the ones in The Year after The Flood – thank you Margaret Atwood), a pantster kinda writer. 

Some plot meticulously, some know each twist turn, every phrase that will be uttered – me I have no more idea what’s behind the door than the reader does…

Okay, by the time the reader picks up the manuscript I know what’s happened – so let’s not get too carried away with the analogy – suffice to say when I write I am like the reader on the same voyage of discovery.

And I like it!

I get the thrill writing, that I hope you get reading.

Sometimes that thrill gets lost, misplaced, forgotten about – and those are dark Mordoresq days. 

But passion wins in the end, the love of the craft overcomes everything, and once again we sit with our inane grin beaming back at the flickering cursor.

So, buckle up fellow travellers – we have our mojo back, adventure awaits, and we have just taken delivery of a brand-new Pith Helmet!!!

Why do we do it, what’s in it for us?

Is it fame, fortune, nubile young women of adventurous intent?

To be fair they all sound good reasons to scribble away – more fantasy than reality, but sound enough reasons all the same.

I’d like to say I’m typing away with some altruistic noble intent, that I am sacrificing my life blood to bequeath unparalleled wisdom, wit, and exploration of the complex human condition…

I could say that, but much like the bevy of enthusiastic gymnasts with a penchant for middle aged scribblers, I think we can agree that these ideas are at best fanciful illusions.

I scribble away knowing that these ‘rewards’ will never be mine.  I accept that I will never buy that ‘castle in Scotland’ or engage in an orgy that would make a rocker form the 1970’s blush – but I scribble all the same.

My aspirations, like my rewards are indeed modest.

I’d like to be read, and once read I’d like to be enjoyed.

I scribble away because the challenge is something I enjoy – the scenarios I create become problems that need solving.

But, most of all I’d like so very much to be read.

No matter how doe eyed I stand, no matter how appealing I make my submission to the publishing gods – the answer remains as it always seems to be… a silent NO.

The clocks tick, time passes by, and the ‘if you haven’t heard from us in eight weeks’ comes, and then goes. 

My first attempt at submitting my work wasn’t the best – we have learnt, adapted, and improved – but still the echo is silent.  

Chapters 1- 3, pages 0 – 30 have been written, rewritten, scrunched up, thrown away and polished as much as my limited skill will allow – yet still the silence screams after each submission NO.

Is this a test of perseverance to see if I’m worthy – or is it the publishing world emphatically telling me to try my hand at pottery?

To this question I have no answer…

I think my project has merit, has potential, and that it is worthy of being read.

But sometimes the Chumbawamba tubthumping rhetoric isn’t enough.

Maybe my labour will be rewarded?

Maybe.

Maybe not.